


Meant to Be Yours: Thanksgivings Past

by gray_autumn_sky



Series: Meant to Be Yours [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 03:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8650432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gray_autumn_sky/pseuds/gray_autumn_sky
Summary: A little glimpse into Regina's life before finding Henry again.





	

Regina stood on the sidewalk in front of the community center, holding a grocery bag at the tips of her fingers—it was Thanksgiving, and until that day, she’d actually managed to forget—as she usually did.

She’d gone into work to find her office empty, and then the realization struck. Her heels clicked loudly against the floor as she proceeded into her office and the phone didn’t ring for the entire day, making it eerily quiet. She told herself she enjoyed the solace, that she’d finally be able to catch up on work she hadn’t had time for and get ahead on a budget report that was due at the end of the year, but all the while, she kept looking at her phone. She watched as the minutes passed, slowly turning into hours. She knew there wouldn’t be any invites to Thanksgiving celebrations extended to her, but there was a shred of hope that maybe Graham would call, that maybe he’d want to see her that night—and though she hated herself for wanting that, it would mean that she wouldn’t be alone.

But Graham didn’t call—and after eleven hours in her office, her back was tight and her heart was deflated. She’d headed to the grocery store, finding it mostly empty and there hadn’t been any turkeys left—not that she would eat an entire turkey on her own—so she’d settled on some sushi and a bottle of wine, just before the store closed for the evening. She told herself over and over again that it didn’t matter, that it didn’t bother her, that she was okay on her own—but no matter how many times she told the lie, no matter how badly she wanted to, she just couldn’t convince herself to believe it.

She’d lost count of the years she’d done this—the years she spent dining alone at a table meant for twelve, the years she spent sitting wistfully at her window, looking out at the falling snow and missing a family that she never had. In more recent years, her thoughts would inevitably drift to the little boy who could have been hers—the little boy who could have filled her life and her heart with so much love and contentment, the little boy she hoped was happy somewhere.

She’d smile at that thought, lingering on what his life might be like—and no matter how many times she did this, no matter how many times she allowed herself to think of him and who he’d become, what she imaged was always different. But on Thanksgiving, she always imagined him getting up early to watch the Thanksgiving Day Parade. She considered the floats he’d like—some years Charlie Brown was his favorite and other years it was a video game character, and other years it was something more traditional like a turkey or a nutcracker. She imagined he was excited at the end, when Santa Claus arrived, and she imagined that he begged to go and see him at the local department store as soon as possible—something he would ask again and again until his parents finally took him the week before Christmas. She imagined that he laughed at all the corny jokes the announcers told as if they were actually funny and watch with interest as high school marching bands played Christmas carols, humming along with the familiar beats. And she always imagined that he spent his Thanksgiving surrounded by people who loved him, people who were so thankful he’d come into their lives, surrounded by people who knew how to love.

Swallowing hard, she stands rooted in place in front of the window, watching as residents of Storybrooke line up with plates. It’s a buffet-style dinner, and the same people who serve it every year are standing around the buffet wearing aprons and holding serving spoons. She watches as Mary-Margaret Blanchard smiles and scoops a large spoonful of sweet potatoes onto someone’s plate and she watches as Granny Lucas slices the turkey and Ruby pours the gravy.

In the middle of the bunch is a man she’s seen often—a man who she finds herself inexplicably drawn to, but has never actually spoken to—and she watches as he serves the mashed potatoes, smiling warmly at everyone who passes through the line. Even from the window, she can see his blue eyes sparkling with holiday cheer and even just by looking at him, she knows that he has a kind heart, the sort of heart that would be open to anyone—maybe even her, in another lifetime.

There’s a little boy with messy curly hair sitting on his shoulder handing out dinner rolls. He has a toothless, dimpled smile that’s so like his father’s—and she feels a pang of guilt, knowing that he’ll never outgrow this moment, knowing that he’ll never grow into the good man he should one day become. But at the very least, he looks happy—happy in a moment he’ll live again and again.

It occurs to her that she could go inside, but she knows that she wouldn’t be wanted. She’s not even sure that she could be useful—and that’s why she’s never chosen to participate in Storybrooke’s annual feast, despite the fact that it was her office that planned the event. Months ago, she’d made all of the arrangements. She ordered the food from Granny’s—paying a lucrative catering bonus to make it worthwhile—and she ordered the linens and decorations, and ensured there was more than enough of everything. And then she disappeared, telling herself that maybe another year she’d take a more active role, all the while knowing that she wouldn’t.

With one more wistful look, she pushes herself away from the window and again thinks of the little boy who’d almost been hers. She tells herself that he’s probably sitting down to dinner, taking extra helpings of cranberry sauce for his turkey and skimming the sweet layer of marshmallow off of the sweet potatoes, and not-so-patiently waiting for desert.  And then, for a brief and fleeting moment, she lets herself think of what it would be like to go home to him—to open her front door and have him run to her, to sweep him up and hold him close. She lets herself think of taking him by the hand and leading him to the kitchen as they unload the grocery bag and to prepare their own little Thanksgiving feast—and as she looks back at the community center, she catches as glimpse of the blue-eyed man serving mashed potatoes, and she imagines him coming into the kitchen and kissing her cheek before bending to pull the turkey from the oven.

She makes her way down Main Street, shivering as the wind starts to pick up—and she takes a breath, trying her best to ignore the hallow feeling in chest and the tears stinging as they slide down her cheeks—and once more, it’s painfully clear that the only happy ending she ruined was her own.


End file.
